


The Sound of Someone Sleeping Next to Me

by TessaVice



Category: Sorted (Website) RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Insomnia, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, implied more than friendship possibilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25291153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TessaVice/pseuds/TessaVice
Summary: Mike can't sleep.James just wants to read.
Relationships: James Currie/Mike Huttlestone
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68





	The Sound of Someone Sleeping Next to Me

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a very long time since I've written any fic and this has most definitely not been beta'd. Here goes nothing.
> 
> Sorry in advance for my love of a parenthetical. (not really that sorry)

The first time it happens is on the couch at the office.

MIke is tired. Mike has spent the last 4 nights alternating between staring at the ceiling over his bed and staring at the ceiling over his couch. The insomnia isn’t anything new, really. Most of the guys are used to it at this point. The shadows under his eyes bruise purple and his brain moves a little slower. It’s like all the frenetic energy that surrounds him builds and builds to the point where he has to wait for it to break, hope for it to break. All he can normally do is wait.

It’s the middle of the afternoon and there’s a lull between filming and meetings and editing. Mike’s head aches, this spot right at the base of his neck feels pinched and no matter how many times he tries to stretch or crack it out, it’s sitting there stubborn as anything. He feels restless and jumpy, probably from the amount of coffee consumed to offset the lack of sleep, and can’t find a place to just be still.

Jamie and Barry are sitting side by side on their laptops, looking to see who can find the more pretentious ingredient or ridiculous gadget. It’s loud and the energy between them is radiating in this non-stop game of one upmanship. Mike tries to focus on the screen in front of him but his vision is starting to go soft around the edges and he gives up, looking for somewhere a little quieter.

Ben is in the lab working on a recipe. His movements are slow and methodical as he weighs something powderery and yellow (cornmeal? cornflower? corn starch?) (Mike feels another throb in the base of his neck). There is a sense of calm in the motions of mixing and measuring but it’s like he can feel Ben’s brain as it whirls through steps and thoughts and always trying to be 10 moves ahead of everyone else. It radiates from him and Mike swears it’s almost visible, this kind of pinky blue color. And then Mike remembers that he’s slept about three hours in the past four days and maybe it’s just catching up with him.

James is on the couch, legs thrown up on an ottoman, book open in his lap. There’s a pen and paper next to him, ostensibly for notes, but whatever he’s reading has him so engrossed that they’ve been forgotten and he’s just luxuriating in the pleasures of the words. Mike stops a few paces away, just watching for a moment, looking for that energetic feeling that invades the rest of the studio, but...it’s not there. James is steady and silent and a mountain of calm (not just because he’s built like a mountain) and Mike moves closer. 

One movement sweeps the paper and pen to the floor as Mike plops down in their place, stretching out along the couch like he’s done a million times before. His head is on Jame’s thigh (you’d think it would be like having a rock for a pillow but it’s surprisingly nice) and he turns on his side so he can see the book. It’s something about the history of heirloom vegetables, the pages crowded with words and not many pictures. Mike doesn’t bother stifling a yawn and James doesn’t say a thing as his friend gets comfortable. It hurts him to see Mike tired and lost looking and if this helps then who is he to stop it?

His fingers, long and callused and so sure - always so sure - find their way to Mike’s hair. They move with a steady rhythm and Mike isn’t used to being petted, but he’s not exactly against the idea either. James’ hand moves down his neck to the base (he saw Mike rubbing it earlier) and his thumb digs into just the right spot. The cycle repeats itself creating this loop of softness and pressure and Mike makes the smallest humming noise of complete contentment before his eyes close and stay that way for the next few hours.

The next time is on a trip to Los Angeles in the fall. The time change is hitting him harder than normal and everything feels too hot or too bright or too different. Normally Mike loves visiting America (especially California) but he’s been cranky since they arrived three days ago to the point where no one really wants to be around him. He’s upstairs in his room (the other four are split - two and two - but he got the only solo space) (might have something to do with the crankiness) trying and failing to do something. Anything. His brain is spinning around the next several days of shooting, the editing that still needs to be done, the fact that he can’t find his favorite shirt (he knows he packed it maybe). 

Finally giving up on trying to focus on any one thing, he wanders down to a quiet room. It’s after dinner, the sun is low and coming in the window in just the right way to hit his eyes as he steps onto the back patio. James is stretched into the hammock, one long leg draped over the side so his foot could control a steady sway. His other leg is bent, tablet propped on his thigh.

“Ebbers went to meet with friends.” (Ebbers had friends everywhere. How did he do it?) “Barry and Jamie went with him.”

It was a little disconcerting that James could read his mind like that. It was also a little cool, if Mike was being honest. He hated being honest.

It was less of a walk and more of a shuffle as he moved over to the hammock. He wasn’t sure if James sighed or if he just imagined it, but chose to ignore it anyway. The younger man was in a tank top and these soft looking grey shorts. Mike could see the line on his arm where pale skin met slightly-less-pale-slightly-more-pink skin that had spent the day in the sun (with copious amounts of sun cream). 

The hammock probably would have tipped over and spilled them both on the concrete patio if it weren’t for James anchoring them securely in place. 

And then Mike is tucked in next to him, their bodies meeting in the middle of the hammock as it settled into a new rhythm. James’ arm is around his shoulders loosely, keeping him still. His face is all but pressed into James’ chest, voice muffled. 

“My brain won’t shut up.” Even without his mouth smushed against James his voice seems thin and a little lost. 

It’s quiet for a beat as they swing softly in the cooling evening air. James thinks about yoga and meditation and the need to focus on someone else’s guidance to get your own head to just shut up for a few minutes. He also knows he’s no expert on any of that so instead he taps his tablet to wake it up, bringing his book back to the screen.

> _ He waits, and Willem waits with him. He can hear them breathing in tandem, and it is as if they are bringing all the air from the room, from the apartment, from the world, into their lungs and then releasing it, just the two of them, all by themselves. He counts their breaths: five, ten, fifteen. At twenty, he says, “If I tell you, Willem, do you promise you won’t get mad?” and he feels Willem shift again. _

James’ voice is low and just next to Mike’s ear. There’s a softness in it Mike isn’t used to, but finds he likes. Fingers move lightly along his upper arm, tracing some kind of invisible pattern. He listens on, the words starting to blend together (which is probably for the best) until his eyes can’t stay open any longer. 

The third time it happens is the week between Christmas and New Years. Everything is closed for the holiday and Mike is out of things to do. Family: check. Friends: check. Pub: check check check check. And now it’s 1:28 in the morning and he’s standing in the cold outside an apartment block that isn’t his, phone lifted to his ear.

“What’s wrong? Are you ok?” James’ voice is thick and sleepy and full of a concern that makes Mike’s heart do a tango (which is unexpected but also a bit nice).

“I’m, uh,” he hesitates because if someone really pressed him, it would be hard to explain exactly what was happening and why. He knew it, but there was a screen between him and the ability to put it into words. “I can’t sleep and I’m out front of your flat and I don’t even know if you’re home or visiting or oh, God, I’m a moron. I’m sorry, I’ve woken you and feel like the biggest prat.”

There’s a long silence and Mike hears a vague shuffling noise and what seems like a long-suffering sigh. And then the door buzzes and he just barely manages to catch it.

James’ flat is on the third floor and the door of it swings up before Mike can even knock. He’s not sure if it’s the weird hour or his insomnia or the fact that James is wearing blue and yellow plaid flannel pajama pants and nothing else that keeps him from saying anything first.

“Well you won’t sleep any better standing in the hallway.” His voice is a bit rough and scratchy, but there’s nothing harsh about the look in his eyes. Mike shuts the door behind him, kicking off his shoes, shrugging off his coat, still not sure what to say. James just looks at him for a second before shaking his head. “Come on, then.”

He hasn’t been here often, but Mike is assuming they’ll head for the sofa. The living room is not the way James heads though, probably because it’s now 1:30 in the morning and he just got out of a very warm bed to let Mike in and all he wants to do is get back in said warm bed. So Mike is now awkwardly standing in James’ room, which he has never been in before (why would he have?) instead of awkwardly standing in the hallway (so an improvement). There’s a small light on the nightstand which casts a pale yellow haze over the room as James slides back under the duvet and looks pointedly at Mike.

No point in getting in fully clothed, he thinks, shucking off his hoodie and trousers and climbing in the other side. It’s warm and soft and there are so many pillows (who knew a person needed that many pillows) and Mike finds himself sliding to James’ side of the bed like a literal heat-seeking missile (it was so cold and he ended up walking blocks because, okay, he got a little lost on the way over). James, for his part, just accepts the arm thrown over his waist, the leg over his leg. “Brain won’t shut up again?” he asks gently.

Mike is quiet for a long moment, not really looking at James but not  _ not _ looking at him. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

James gives a half-shrug (with the shoulder currently not occupied by Mike’s head). “We’ve all been there, haven’t we?”

There’s a book on the nightstand with a fading purple cover and cracked spine, something that looks like it’s been read a thousand times before, but with Spider-Monkey Mike wrapped around him, James can’t quite reach it. He’s not really the kind of guy who makes up stories or can create a world out of words, but he wants to give Mike something to focus on besides his own thoughts.

“You start by dissolving a teaspoon and a half of yeast into 50 mils of warm water. While that activates, weight out 500 grams of flour....You want good bread flour, not the stuff you would use in a cake...” 

All else fails, talk about bread.

The light stays on because James refuses to move and risk waking Mike up.

The next morning Mike wakes up and it takes him a few long moments to process where he is and that James is curled around him, front pressed to his back, arm looped around his waist. Mike is not used to being the little spoon, but he also doesn’t really mind it. He feels rested and a little drunk on sleep (it’s a thing) and the warmth of James’ breath on the back of his neck is really quite nice. 

He tries to move as softly as possible to extricate himself from the very nice arms of his friend (friend?) but James just tightens his grip.

“Stay.”

It’s less of a command and more of a request and after everything James has done, how can Mike say no? He relaxes back against him and James makes this little snuffling snort noise of what can only be described as absolute contentment.

Maybe insomnia has it’s upsides.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Substitute by Frank Turner.
> 
> Except from A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara which is beautiful and sad and will probably break your heart. You should totally read it.


End file.
